Page 19 of Mensa's Match

Mensa

If she thought ashower would help with his struggle, she needed a reality check. Even if he could jack off in the shower with her mere feet away, it wouldn’t be enough.

Worst of all, he couldn’t tell her that without giving himself away.

Hell, he’d lied about the adrenaline. Block’s words on the phone had stuck in his head like a bad pop song. He’d repeated Finn’s suggestion that Mensa ‘work’ Whitney out of his system.

As though one quick fuck would do that for him.

As though her every curve didn’t hold a promise of pleasure he couldn’t find with any other woman.

As though riding for the last forty-five minutes with her at his back hadn’t felt perfect.

As though she were as expendable as a sweet-butt.

No.

Block and Finn didn't have a clue.

Mensa couldn’t fuck Whitney out of his system. Hell, one taste and he’d probably lock them both in that room for the next five days.

Shit. That thought made his blood rush south and his jeans felt tight.

After that won’t we just be sleeping?Her question was so forthright, that he wished he hadn’t been so convincing downstairs.

It would never be just sleeping next to her. He’d already cataloged the many ways he could take her. His favorite so far was from behind in a spoon position, but watching her come while dominating her in missionary held a very close second place.

He blew out a sigh and swung his arm toward the bathroom. “You hit the shower first, Blume. You’re right, it’s just sleeping, and I’ll get my shit tight by the time you’re finished.”

Her expression shifted… and fuck him, was that disappointment?

He didnotneed to know that.

She shook her head. “I’ll shower, right after I report my car stolen. I’m serious, though, don’t sleep on the floor. That’s ridiculous.”

Half-an-hour later, Whitney had reported her car stolen and gone into the bathroom. With her out of the room, he threw the extra pillow on the bed and put the flannel blanket back in the closet.

He shrugged off his cut and put it on a hanger. The remote control caught his eye and he grabbed it. Rather than turn on the television, though, he sent a group text to Har, Brute, and Cynic.

Rod, the VP of Corrupt Chrome MC opened fire at the bar tonight. He shot at me and Whitney. Two-Times returned fire and I got Whitney out. I’d have stuck around, but some other Corrupt Chrome member chased me on my bike.

Moments later Cynic texted back.

Yeah, I’m at the bar dealing with BPD. What about Whitney? Did she report her stolen car?

His phone rang and Har’s name came up on the screen.

“Hey, Prez.”

“Tell me exactly what the hell happened.”

He ran it down for Har.

Humor laced Har’s tone. “And you took her to a roadside hotel instead of your room at the clubhouse?”

“Prez—,” he drawled.

“You really can’t stand her.”

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